I’ve been writing life stories since I was a distracted fourth grade student in Mrs. Edinger’s class. Multiplication tables couldn’t hold a candle to what was going on in my head. Since then I’ve published articles in numerous papers and am currently working on my first book. To visit my site, please click here.

Archive for the ‘Sandwiches’ Category

One of the main reasons my family moved to Mexico at the end of this summer was so that my children, ages 12 and 9, would learn Spanish. They were born and raised in South Florida, guided by a pair of expat parents raised in Venezuela and coddled in a culture swimming with Latin American influence, so, it is not a language they are completely foreign to, but still, they are gringos, and we felt the best way to fully turn that language skill around was by living in a Spanish-speaking country.
We’ve already seen results in the short month we’ve been living in Mexico. My son watches the early morning kiddie shows as he gets ready to school. It is stuff he’d never dream about back home- Dora the Explorer, Handy Mandy, and Wonder Pets. These are all phases he long outgrew. The difference, of course, is that these are all in Spanish, and now our mornings are filled with the same sickly sweet lyrics we were subjected to five years ago, only this time…in Spanish! (‘El telefono, el telefono suena…es hora de despertar.’)
Both kids seem to be assimilating to their new culture at light speed and the language seems to be no exception. Aside from sharing new candies and lollipops (‘covered in chili powder, mom!’) they are answering back with the slick smoothness of a native, “No manches, guey” (translates roughly to ‘no kidding, dude’.)
I am a fluent Spanish speaker, born and raised in Caracas, Venezuela. And yet, I am learning fast, I don’t quite speak Mexican. Certain Spanish words I have used all my life for one thing mean something totally different here. Or worse, are completely useless here because they represent something totally different and/or indecent.Foods are an equal literary maze. Give me a menu at an authentic Mexican restaurant and I am stumped. Quite simply, stumped. It is my goal to work on that while I am here and become a fluent speaker. I’ve already started! When I first arrived, there was a big buzz about the best spot for tortas for a quick comida. My Spanish tells me that comida means ‘food’ but it turns out, comida is the Mexican version of my almuerzo, or lunch. People in Mexico go to la comida when they go to lunch. If they are short on time, they have a quick torta, which had me stumped once again because for me, torta means cake, and, as much as I love a good cake, I know better than to devour one for lunch.
The Mexicans are kind and gracious and immediately forgiving so there was little shame on my part when I made the first inquiry about their habit of cake eating for lunch. “We’ll take you to have the best torta” my Mexican guide offered as a memorable lesson in language. And that’s when I learned (and will never forget), the art of the Mexican torta: a delicious sandwich crammed with meat, smashed avocado, pickled jalapeño, lettuce, tomato and onions. Sometimes refried beans are slathered on there too. Of course there are many different fillings, but the classic, and my favorite, is with Torta de Carne Arrachera, flank steak sandwich. Translastion: yum!

I’d imagine most mothers celebrate the moment their preteen daughters set off for camp.It can be viewed as a time for growth, self-awareness, peace, and calm.

I bought myself a meat grinder instead.

You see, I know I am supposed to feel happy.I know it is good for her.Good for me.Good for everyone.But still, that mother identity has steadily coated its glaze on me over the years of driving the child to karate class, driving the child to piano lessons, driving the child to physical therapy, driving the child to play dates and on and on and on is suddenly hitting me dead on.She’s gone, now what the hell do I do?Who the hell am I?And that’s when I am not done. I still have a seven-year old son left to contend with. But he seems too easy: throw a Wii game his way and an occasional bowl of blackberries and he’s pretty much good.No catfight there.

But with my daughter, my beautiful, daring, and wise-beyond-her-years daughter, things are very, very different.We are very different.And the friction is always there.It’s a codependency of sorts, I know.My first response to the temporary evaporation of this role was to reinstate it through housekeeping duties, so I immediately pulled out the vacuum and began tackling the disgustingly dirty floor.No sooner had I done that did I miss my daughter’s scolding voice warning me not to vacuum, “Never vacuum, mom, you know that it messes your back up!” I could hear her saying.And she’s right, of course, it always messes my back up.

My eyes welled up more just thinking of that reprimand, knowing it would never come from my son, whom even as I voraciously (and, I admit, quite dramatically) thrust my aching spine back and forth with the heavy vacuum, strategically placing myself between him and his viewing of Star Wars: The Clone Wars (which, he’s seen way too many times to count), no comment came forth. Not even a grunt.

Seeing that the housekeeping tactic was spiraling me further into sadness I switched gears and went shopping.With my son and his DS game in tow, I felt all alone as I careened the large polished aisles of Target bursting with an exuberant range of choices:dresses, purses, bathing suits, sunglasses… and I was only five steps into the place.Many a battle had been fought with my ADHD girl and still, a sappy voice within me surged thinking, “Oh…If I were with Dani…” I caught myself and smacked my head with my hand.What was I thinking?Had I succumbed to nostalgia over shopping fights with my daughter?Was I too used to always having the gloves up “No you can’t buy that, did you bring your allowance, maybe next time, no I never said you could “ and on and on and on, that here, in this quiet air-conditioned playground of Capitalism, I had nothing to contend with but my son’s game giving an occasional beep and him shouting an aimless “yeah, I made it to the next level!” that wasn’t even addressed to me?Where was the fun in that?

Some people resort to alcohol to cure their blues. Others smoke.Others jog marathons. I cook. But if my kitchen isn’t accessible, I do the next best thing and hit the closest Kitchen Appliance aisle. Thus, in my mopey state I found myself seeking comfort in Target’s latest gleaming culinary gadgets.They knew my angst.They felt the pain.They’d been there throughout, whether it was the immersion blender that ground up my nanny Yoli’s celebrated black beans so that my then-baby daughter could slurp them all up and splatter the remnants on the wall just because (oh remember how cute she was slathered in black sludge?)Or the blender that had whipped up the strawberries for her favorite frozen yogurt popsicles (the only way I could get that girl to eat fruit, even today).And of course, the hand mixer that beat her favorite carrot muffins to life, muffins that she gobbles as readily as she breathes air and then tests all her friends to try and guess the secret ingredient (carrots:they never do).Yes, the aisle was basking in memories, and as my son advanced from level 6 to level 7 on his DS, I passed by the meat grinding attachment and smiled.

Dani and I had just had a whole conversation about it.She had spotted it in a culinary catalogue, which she reads voraciously since she first took a serious interest in cooking at the age of 5.

“Mom, this would be peeeerfect for us,” she squealed with glee.I watched her apprehensively: not sure if it was the shopaholic or the cook in her talking.But then she went on:

“You won’t have to buy that nasty ground meat in the supermarket, who knows where it comes from.Even the organic one, mom.Pu – lease.This way you are in complete control.We buy the meat and fresh grind it at home!How cool is that?Think of all the burgers we could make.”

She makes a good argument, I thought to myself, knowing that my daughter knew me well enough to understand it didn’t take much to twist my arm towards culinary purchases.Also, the whole do-it-yourself spin had many levels of appeal.And of course, this was the fundamental tool for a die-hard meat eater like my daughter.

“I’ll think about it”, I offered, not knowing it would be a mere 48 hours before I’d have the memory hitting me in the face at Target.

It must be a sign, Kitchen Aid FGA murmured, instantly reading my mind. I quickly agreed and snatched Lawrence (all my appliances are named) anticipating taking him home to my hot red mixer, Lulu.I knew they’d get along just grand and images of endless tasty burgers shared with my daughter upon her return from camp filled me with warmth and happiness.

Once upon a time there was a very young lady and a not-quite-as-young man (a scandal left for another story) that were carefree, adventurous and childless.On a whim, they decided to tour the country of Spain, and as was their manner, to tour it in full culinary detail.Of course, this dashing duo tackled with the small inconvenience of being broke and feared little finance would serve as a burden in their experience of food.

They were joined by other friends on this journey that took place in the heart of a scorching summer twenty years ago and together they all crammed into a tiny and dusty red Ford Fiesta and, listening to endless rounds of Chrissie Hynde’s “Brass in Pocket” and Mecano’s melancholic “Aire” explored their souls and the Iberian peninsula for a sultry five weeks filled with laughter, sights and, many “fixed menu” meals that where exquisite and reliably affordable, casting aside financial doubts.The experience left me, that very young lady, enamored with Spain, whose images and flavors have steadily nourished me over the years.

The trip began and culminated in La Plaza Mayor, the legendary square-turned-tourist attraction in Madrid famed for being the center for public beheadings back in its heyday.By 1989 this pastime was long gone, of course, and in its place stood clowns folding balloons for giddy children, men posing as Charlie Chaplin and heavyset women draped in clay personifying statues under the unforgiving heat. Nestled amongst stores selling Chinese-made plastic albañiques and sword replicas sat an inconspicuous space whose only connection to the outside world was a tiny window with a miniature blackboard scribbling the day’s dish, which was always the same thing:bocadillo de calamares (fried squid sandwich).Our noses had led us to this spot, our eyes saw the crowds lined up and reconfirmed the choice, and the price sang pretty in our light wallets, making it a done deal.Time and time again we sought excuses to return to this alcove and gobbled mounds of freshly fried squid rings crammed into warm crusty mini-baguettes doused with fresh ocean, crunchy sea salt and nothing else. It was a memory I carried and protected vehemently through the years.

So it seemed fitting that now, this young duo that had grown up a bit, married, and created a family head straight for La Plaza Mayor on their return trip to Spain. It was early June and the heat still jostled us, even after being Miami residents for almost fifteen years.Clowns and Chaplins still abounded as well as the outdoor cafes serving overpriced cold beer.We had come here with one purpose really and that was to recapture our carefree youth through the unforgettable bocadillo.Our long-time Madrid-based friend thought we were insane twenty years ago and still insane today: insane to head to this touristy spot and pay what we were paying for a beer that would be colder and cheaper two blocks away and certainly insane to brave the bocadillos of Plaza Mayor.

“Everyone knows you get Hepatitis from those.The grease here is from last century.Let’s go three blocks away, the best bocadillos, fresh calamares, pure olive oil, no worries”, he begged.Now, this is a guy that thrives on cheap eats, so I would be lying if I say I didn’t hesitate a bit. But the memory of youth and flavor drove us forth as our eyes scanned the perimeter of the square in search of that memorable little window.

And then we saw it off to the side.It was dark and dank and still had the scribbled little blackboard but the crowds where gone.My mate and I eyed each other suspiciously and in the silent ebb of mind language shared by soul mates conferred:

“No line, huh?Do we really want to venture there?We’ve come a long way, filled our wallets a bit since then, might it not possibly be a wiser move to hit the tapas bar around the bend?”

It all happened within the span of three blinks.And even those three blinks where futile, as we both knew the answer:Yes. Undeniably, undoubtedly yes.We will forge onward and ahead. To the abandoned window that housed a time filled with adventure and promise and fun, and we think, good food.

Our friend shook his head and moved to the side.Our children smelled distrust and graciously declined.But my mate and I pressed forward, approached the tiny hole and rattled off our order: “Dos bocadillos, por favor.”

They arrived too quickly. We quietly acknowledged this as the first bad sign.No time to heat up the oil, gently batter the squid and fry.But there we were, holding our youth in our calloused hands, hands that had locked together over twenty years ago and traveled the world, filling our hearts and bellies with love, food and adventure. So we did what we do best and flung ourselves forward, creating a new memory, we took a bite of our bocadillo in unison, with our children apprehensively looking on and our friend looking away, and as we both took that first anticipated bite we realized it was disgusting; truly and utterly disgusting.

When something is that disgusting it is hard to describe why.Way too salty.Way too greasy.Way too old.Way wrong.And where someone would normally spit it out and spew in despair we did what only lunatics as us do and took another bite (again in unison) just to make sure it truly was that disgusting, in ghoulish curiosity and desperate need to verify our past, for now the questions loomed in our mind:

Was it always that gross?Did we have no taste back then?Where we that desperate?

I can tell you that was the end of that.The bocadillos ended up in the trash after our giggling fit subsided.Our children looked confused and our friend was vindicated:

“See, I told you. Hepatitis, amigos, hepatitis.”

And with that we let the memory alone, clasped our greasy hands together and held one hand out for each one of our kids to grab and form a chain as together, we moved forward, laughing our youth away as we headed towards the tapas bar around the bend.

I looked at her inquisitively and she returned the stare with utter impatience.She was a petite woman with wavy black hair swept up in a hurried ponytail, a white shirt and apron emblazoned with the store’s cheery logo and a big pin that said “Hi, my name is Lucinda.”

Lucinda quickly categorized me as an incompetent culinary idiot for not knowing the immediate response to her apparently obvious query, but all I was thinking was how I’ve never before been asked what degree of warmth I wanted my Panini sandwich and leave it to some wanna-be quasi-gourmet food market in South Florida to be the first to pop the question.

“Won’t the cheese automatically melt once you heat it up?” I ventured.I couldn’t help myself.I had to be smart, even though I’ve been warnedby friends to never ever be smart with food servers before you’ve been served your food: they can do all sorts of things to your food when you aren’t looking: use stale ingredients, toss it on the floor, spit or sneeze on it and then serve it up with a smile all in the name of revenge.Okay, so I have real paranoid friends.In any case, I really couldn’t help myself.

Lucinda re-filed me under “Complete Moron” and slid off her smirk long enough to reply, this time speaking Oh-So-Slowly:

What’s the point of a panini, I felt like offering up as a cheap rebuttal, but was distracted by my momentary lapse of self-pity for being stuck in a culinary wasteland that offered few good options and even less gastronomic understanding, let alone customer service. Lucinda could have worked here or at Borders or at Chevron.It really didn’t matter.

It was her annoyed breathing that snapped me back to life and I arrogantly informed her that My Panini would have the cheese melted, of course.She sighed and warned me this would take a good fifteen to twenty minutes and I called her bluff and said that would be fine.It felt more like a round at a boxing ring than a sandwich order at a food market, but, I was determined to win this fight, and so I stood there, leaning up against the display counter, blocking the view of the stuffed cabbage, quiche lorraine, and roasted Tuscany vegetables. They had nothing to do with this skirmish but lended way to me being as obtrusive as possible for the duration of my wait.

My experience with Lucinda had most definitely deflated any craving I had originally had for a Panini and I began wondering if I would have been better served going to the local sushi barfor some hot tuna crunch rolls instead.At least there they always smile at me.

I received a phone call from a long-time friend while I waited and my aggressive stance melted as quickly as I hoped my panini’s cheese would.Before I knew it, Lucinda was facing me with my wrapped sandwich.As I ended my phone call, I paid for my lunch andheaded out to the car.As I headed home, I unwrapped my Panini to find that the inside was stone cold and the outside was charred beyond recognition.The cheese, whose loyalty was obviously torn, had spots that were solid and spots that where melted.Suddenly, my neurotic friends didn’t seem so ludicrous.God knows what else had happened to this thing while I chatted away oblivious to Lucinda’s revenge streak.As hungry as I was, I carefully wrapped up my battle-scarred sandwich (and ego) and put it away.No knockout punch and no lunch for me today.

It’s the swoosh of those strenuously long eyelashes that makes me go weak at the knees.
Always.
I know she is cute in so many ways, who better than me, her mother, to name them all, but most definitely the eyelashes are my weakness, maybe out of maternal pride (look at that Voguesque attribute that formed in MY uterus) or jealousy (I glob and glob and glob endless vats of mascara promising to deliver half her natural length.
I am lucky if I’ll get a third).
They get me every time.
“Pleease, mom, please”, she pleads in rhythm with her swoosh.
Each time those lids close I swear I am being fanned.
She clutches the bright white bag with psychedelic red, blue and yellow dots floating amongst its brazen “WONDER BREAD” inscription as if it where her most treasured American Girl doll.
I appeared shell shocked and just looked around aisle 8 anxiously hoping no one would recognize me.
How on earth would I, a self-ordained food snob, explain my offspring cavorting with such low-grade food fare?
“Come on, Dani, it has absolutely no nutritional value”, I attempted in my most maternal tone, all the while picturing mush clogging up an already clogged colon (mothers really can picture this).
But I haven’t described to you the color of her eyes yet, have I?
They are not the light sky blue eyes that I carry; eyes that, growing up amongst Venezuelans whose standard oculus color choices range in brown, dark brown and black, were both cherished and gawked at as if they made me into some unique species.
Nor are her eyes those of my Venezuelan husband, a non-descript muddy tone that falls under the dark brown category.

No, her color is one all of her own, as if her tiny DNA ladder took a dance with sky and sludge to decide which she’d end up with and couldn’t make up its mind so she ended up with a strange mix of the two.

A swirl with the heavens and the earth leads to a most interesting hue:
rich honey, like amber with splotches of gold and even a speck of green (my father’s hazel making a quiet cameo appearance).

And why stick with one tint when you can have them all, her tiny, logical blueprint thought to itself?
And so she hasn’t, for those swirls of colors do change depending on my daughter’s outfit, her mood, or the clarity of the day.
Every sunrise holds a new surprise as to what color eyes she will have – a constant motion of change and beauty, much like her.
So I am telling you when those killer eyelashes brush over those unforgettable eyes (today the color of wild blueberry honey) you buckle at the knees and even allow a loaf of Wonderbread to be boug ht (and not even hidden, you balance it right on the top of the shopping cart, damnit, next to the organic free range eggs and the locally grown arugula, because you don’t give a crap anymore, you are forever swollen with love over that beautiful gaze you somehow participated in creating.)
She knows she has this hold over me because she looks in my direction and throws two more blinks.
“Thanks, mom” she says, with a subtle yet victorious grin sliding on her face.
I know she knows how easy that was.
I know she wonders what else she can get and whom else she will sucker if her mother, The Toughest of the Toughest, caved under seven blinks.
I know she knows all this.
Aside from having stunning eyes she is incredibly smart.
But I can’t help myself.
I can’t say no to her eyes.
At home I place the white spongy bread next to the hearty multi-grain loaf.
It is bright and bleached and happy next to its sullen, heavy healthy counterpart.
Thanksgiving has just ended and I find myself recalling my childhood right after this holiday where turkey was enjoyed best in a sandwich: thick chunks of meat slathered with mayonnaise and thinly sliced red tomatoes.
The bread was always lightly toasted and white, airy and delicious.
I know I have a whole Tupperware filled with leftover turkey.
No need to hide from anyone anymore, I am still under my daughter’s eye spell and the grains can wait; I am suddenly craving that wonderful memory.